


Fugue State

by Elywyngirlie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abel Gideon - Freeform, Abigail Hobbs - Freeform, Angst, Cuba, Fugue States, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Murder Husbands, Sexy Times, What if Scenario, loving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9122266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elywyngirlie/pseuds/Elywyngirlie
Summary: Will finds himself in Cuba, enjoying a life of luxury with Hannibal. But strange flashback pervade his mind, image overlying image, and he finds himself losing time again.A what if scenario. What if everything that happened after Season 1 was a fever dream





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sick and this is what I dreamt about. A gift of Nyquil plus too much tea, perhaps.

The sun beat down upon the pair on the private beach. An older man was sketching underneath an umbrella. And the younger man with a shaggy beard throwing the ball for an equally shaggy dog who leaped enthusiastically into the surf to bring the sodden ball back.

“Will!,” the older man called, putting down his sketchbook. Will strolled back to Hannibal and collapsed in the chair next to him. Hannibal was opening up an ice chest and pulling out ceramic boxes. He handed one to Will who casually flipped it open to see a carefully prepared meal nestled into the compartments.

“You need to drink water,” Hannibal commented. “Your skin is getting burnt.” Will shrugged and popped an olive in his mouth. Hannibal frowned and pressed a bottle of sparkling water into Will’s hand, his fingers lingering against Will’s, almost caressing the wedding band.

“There will be a performance of Carmen at the opera house tonight, WIll. I would very much like to attend with you,” Hannibal said. Will took a swig of water and poured a little out for the stray dog, ruffling his head. Hannibal frowned. “Will, I do not appreciate it when my food is given to mutts.”

“I’m a mutt,” Will cheerfully replayed with a cheeky grin. “I’m certainly not aristocracy with a grand castle and sprawling lands.” Hannibal refrained from rolling his eyes at the description of his ancestral family’s manor.

“Neither do I,” he said quietly.

After a moment, as if sensing his disappointment, Will laid a hand on Hannibal’s thigh. “I will go with you. We can pack up and head back to the house after lunch.” Hannibal’s lips twitched and Will relaxed into his chair, eating his sandwich and watching the surf roll in, storm clouds hanging on the horizon. It would arrive soon anyways, he reflected. He did not enjoy being stuffed into a suit, Hannibal often straightening his tie, adding ostentatious cufflinks, running a comb over Will’s back and thighs to pick up any stray lint. And if his hand lingered for a moment longer, Will was no longer surprised.

He did learn not to turn those touches into an invitation for something more. Hannibal became more than irked if he missed a performance, even after he had been writhing under Will’s hands and lips only minutes earlier.

They returned to their small villa on the outskirts of Havana and prepared for the evening. Will started at himself in the mirror, running his hands down the lapels of his jacket. He could hear Hannibal finishing up in the bathroom, humming slightly. Will studied his image for a moment, looking at the now trimmed beard that hid the scar on his face. He thought back about the improbability of it all--Hannibal leaping on the back of the Dragon, Will shoving his knife into the bowels, the fall and the washing up on shore. How Hannibal had held out his hand to a struggling Will, carried him across the cliffs, tended to him. And how Will had leaned into every touch.

He reached his left hand up to touch his beard and frowned. Wasn’t there a ring there earlier?

A sharp pinch on his arm brought him back and Will blinked to see Hannibal stride past him.

“Did you just pinch me?,” he demanded, faintly outraged. Hannibal turned slightly, nostrils flaring.

“What an incredible suggestion, William,” he answered, surprise in every word. Will frowned.

“Do….do I smell okay?,” he asked hesitantly, all too aware that Hannibal had smelled illness on him before. His lover smiled and walked over to wrap his arms around Will.

“Infinitely better now that you use a far superior aftershave,” he pronounced, pressing his lips to Will’s forehead. Will pushed up slightly from his feet and met his lips, running his tongue along the seam, hands gripping the lithe waist. Hannibal leaned into him and wound a curl around his finger, pulling away reluctantly.

“We must go,” he whispered before trailing out of the room.

 

They were in bed, naked and grappling, Hannibal on his back, and Will thrusting into him deeply. His voice was ragged from his cries, Hannibal’s cock in one hand, stroking and squeezing tenderly, Will’s hips pistoning rapidly, almost lifting Hannibal off the mattress. The older man closed his eyes and arched his back, crying Will’s name as he came loudly. Will followed suit and slumped backward, body limpid and worn.

He started up at the ceiling blinking. He wasn’t sure when they came back from the opera. He blinked again, remembering hands on asses, fingers fumbling for release, lips hot on necks.

Nor could he remember the opera.

He stumbled out of bed to grab a wet towel, Hannibal breathing hard, his eyes closed and a please smile on his face. Will blinked as he caught his reflection in the mirror over the sink. A severe Will Graham faced him, a plastic mask over his face, blue coveralls with a number on the side. Will gasped and shook his head, the image gone, replaced by a naked Will Graham, curls tumbling wildly around his face.

Hannibal came up behind him.

“What’s the matter, Will?,” he asked as he kissed his ear. Will tried to smile.

“I’m getting confused. Are you…”

“I’m sure. But if it bothers you all that much, we can take you to be examined tomorrow,” Hannibal promised, hands snaking around to cup Will’s balls, a thumb idly circling the soft skin. Will shuddered and found himself growing hard quickly. He wasn’t all surprised when Hannibal bent him over and took him there, eyes watching each other in what Will thought seemed like an increasingly transparent mirror.

 

Will studied the image from the MRI.

“Absolutely clear,” the doctor was saying in thick English. Will nodded numbly. Hannibal continued to chat fluently with the doctor before grasping Will’s arm.

“See Will? I promise, I will take care of you,” Hannibal steered him outside into the blinding light of the afternoon sun. Will shielded his face with his hand while he reached for his sunglasses.

“I understand our new life has...adjustments,” Hannibal explained as they strolled down to a cafe for a coffee and a light lunch. “I can discover what is going with Molly and Willy if you would like.” They took their seats, Hannibal ordering rapidly and coffees appearing quickly.

“I wonder if Wally is playing baseball,” Hannibal said softly. Will blinked.

“Willy.” Hannibal looked up. “You called him Willy earlier/”

“Sorry, my love. I was distracted,” Hannibal smiled and took a deep drink of coffee. Will leaned back, unsettled.

“Why Cuba?,” he asked, feeling as if not for the first time.

“We are safe for now. Although we should look elsewhere soon. New extradition policies under the opening of Cuba,” Hannibal added. “I was thinking the Maldives if we like being near the beach.”

“That keeps you away from your beloved culture does it not, Hannibal?”

“Each country affords it own pleasures, Will. I’m sure I can find something to suit my tastes.”

“What about something like Shanghai or Beijing?,” Will offered. “Large city, antagonistic relationship with the US, a varied history.”

“I’m afraid my Mandarin is poor,” Hannibal admitted and Will raised a brow.

“I must say I’m disappointed, Dr. Lecter. I had assumed you were proficient in all things,” Will teased and Hannibal looked at him over his sunglasses.  

“There are many things in which I am proficient, William. And I would be glad to show you later.” His voice was rich with dark promise and Will suppressed a shiver.

That voice could promise little deaths, either with a slice of a knife or nimble fingers and lips on his cock.

He had only known the former and only recently the latter.

He couldn’t say why he preferred the latter, only that his body sang in ways he didn’t know, his mind flowered in ways that even he hadn’t imagined, under the good doctor’s tutelage.

“I look forward to it,” Will murmured. Hannibal stood up and placed some bills on the table.

“I will see you at home, Will. I need to pick up a few items for dinner.” Hannibal ambled out onto the street, joining flocks of tourists snapping photos in the newly opened city. Will snorted and turned back to his coffee and reaching down to pet Winston’s head.

 

Harsh lights blinking rapidly, hands holding him down, Will struggling, fighting, flailing against the straps tightening across the chest.

“Hannibal! Hannibal!,” he called, his voice cracking as it pitched higher.

“Why is he screaming for his psychiatrist?,” a voice asked. Will bit down on his lip, blood flooding into his mouth and he moaned around a particularly juicy piece of flank steak.

“Delicious as usual,” he commented and swore Hannibal almost preened. They sat on the deck, looking down at the remote road and the ocean across the street, crashing into the rocks. The clouds kissed the air above the shoreline.

“It will storm tonight,” he remarked.

“Then let us give thanks that we will be snug in our bed, behind boarded windows, rather than on a boat,” Hannibal replied. Will chuckled and continued to slice and place the delicately seasoned and cooked flank steak into his mouth, savoring every bite. He blinked as his plate was replaced by a tray, bland, lumpy food divided by dun colored plastic. Will shook his head and his proper plate swam back into his vision, elaborately decorated, bright with tomato and cilantro.

“Remote parts of Europe?,” he offered, returning to the conversation from earlier.

“Will, I told you, we will be going to Turkey, don’t you remember?,” Hannibal asked, raising a brow. Will frowned. “Earlier, when we were having drinks.” Will held back a shiver, sure his mind was playing time on him. To comfort himself, he pulled out a pen and drew a clock, and sure enough,all the numbers lined up. Hannibal watched him, concerned etched into his brow. He reached out to grab Will’s hand.

“It’s stress. It’s post traumatic stress, Will, that’s all. Your mind is trying to grapple with the changes. It’s going to be alright. There are some medications we can look into to help you with the worst of it,” he reassured the younger man, hand sliding up to cup his face. “I will never let harm befall you. I am your safety net.”

 _You were supposed to protect him out there!_ , he heard a woman shout across the way, the voice thick with tears.

 

Will woke up, the sheet heavy on his naked skin as the clouds roared, thunder shaking the house. Lightning forked across the sky, revealing a differently shaped room than Will remembered. He couldn’t remember getting from the deck to the bed. He couldn’t remember taking off his clothes, nor receiving the bite marks that covered his body. He shook, his arms feeling trapped onto the bed, unable to be moved, almost concrete carved from the slate grey sheets. Will cried out but found his voice stopped, his mouth shut and his legs shook, his head thrashing from side to side, terror rising in his throat.

Then he felt that odd pinch again and slowly began to relax, the terror ebbing.

Hannibal leaned over him, a needle in his hand.

“There you go, Will. Now relax,” he soothed, brushing Will’s hair back from his damp forehead. Will tried to ask the doctor what he gave him but he fell into the darkness, allowing sleep to claim him.

 

“What happened last night?,” Will asked hesitantly as Hannibal slid a plate in front of him, fresh fruit gleaming next to a fluffy omelette.

“You had a nightmare. A bad one,” Hannibal said, turning to reveal cuts across his cheeks and a bruise across his neck and collarbone. Will gaped, horrified while Hannibal reached up and traced the bruise lovingly. “You are more powerful than you know, Will Graham.”

“I….I….” Will pushed himself from table, Winston’s nails clacking on the floor as he scrambled back from Will’s chair.

“You are Becoming. And a part of you wants to fight it. The part that straightjackets your mind in morality,” Hannibal replied, almost unconcerned as he sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“How can you stay with me?,” Will stuttered.

“How can I not? You are my child, my lover, my friend,” Hannibal countered. “I am responsible for your Becoming.” Will tilted his head, considered the well dressed man before him. Hannibal never claimed responsibility, even if he made the grounds fertile for events.

Will found himself shoved up against a wall, a knife against his throat. He dragged in air, his body shaking as Hannibal dragged the flat of the knife against Will’s throat.

“It’s almost as if your unconscious mind has Become, but you refuse it. Why do you refuse my love, Will?”

“You were buried inside of me last night and the night before and nights before that. You know me intimately, more than a wife.”

“That is not the same as accepting my love, Will,” Hannibal retorted. “Why can you not see all the gifts I have given you?” Will thought back to the murder tableaus.

“What gifts?”

“Abigail Hobbs was a gift and you refused her,” Hannibal ground out. “I saved her for you and you cannot take the gift I have given you.”

“And what is that?”

“‘Safety, Will. No one can hurt you,” Hannibal whispered, stepping away as bars shuttered shut between them, clanging as they hit the wall, a loud beep as they locked. Cuba fell away to reveal a dark cell, grey and slick with damp, a drippy faucet, an untouched tray of food.

And Will Graham strapped to a bed as Frederick Chilton bent over him.

“He’s still hallucinating?,” he asked the medical aid.

“He keeps asking for a Hannibal.” Frederick frowned.

“Let us wake up Will Graham,” he ordered and the nurse was brought in to wake up Will Graham.

 

Will lay stretched out on the table in the Cuban dining room, Hannibal carefully drawing on his body.

“You have such a lean body, Will,” he remarked appreciatively. He ran his hand down Will’s thigh, marking with his pen where he apply his blade. “I think I will wrap you in clay and bake you.”

“Why not drown me in Armagnac and flambe me?,” Will shot bac. Hannibal frowned.

“You are a delicacy, Will, to be savored. I plan to keep you with me for years. You can live without a leg for another year or so before I take the other.”

“How kind, Dr. Lecter,” Will acerbically replied.

He found himself seated at the table, his leg presented to him, Hannibal making a show of removing the clay. He was tied to his chair, only his hands free so that he may taste himself, he thought ruefully. Almost hungry with anticipation….

 

And Will cried as he was shot forward, eyes blinking rapidly as he wildly looked around him. His chest was heaving, his heart was racing according to the screaming monitor, and both legs were thrashing against restraints.

“Dr. Chilton?,” he asked dazedly.

“Will, welcome back,” Chilton arrogantly greeted. “It was me that brought you out of your nightmares.

“Nightmares?”

“From your encephalitis.”

“...wasn’t that….” Will frowned, sure that there had been a misdiagnosis. After all hadn’t Hannibal taken him to see a doctor?

“You’re still not out of the woods,” Dr. Alana Bloom stated as she walked into the light, worry heavy on her face. Will remembered sitting across from her, shaking as she told him they had found Abigail Hobbs’ ear in his throat.

...But wasn’t that years ago? Wasn’t he married? Where was Hannibal? He asked that question aloud and Frederick and Alana exchanged glances, thick with meaning.

“Why do you want Hannibal, Will?,” Alana asked softly.

“He’s my husband,” Will bit out. “We were married, why wouldn’t I wait him here?” Frederick couldn’t hide the glee on his face, his hands rubbing his suit jacket and Alana frowned.

“Will, what year is it?” Will gave her a year nearly four years into the future and Alana bit a trembling lip. She and Frederick conferred for a moment and a nurse entered to draw some blood.

“What is going on,” Will shakily demanded.

“Will, you’ve had encephalitis. The virus was further along than we thought. It seems to have some...serious damage,” Alana conceded. “We will need to run some tests to see how much damage it has done to you.”

“But Hannibal...we took me to a doctor…”

“It seems to have evolved rapidly,” Alana explained patiently. “You are currently in the medical wing and are being treated. I’m here working with Dr. Chilton.”

“You are guest in my facility,” Chilton interjected smoothly, “so I would say working under.” Alana rolled her eyes and Will stared at the man.

“You were dead,” he said thoughtfully and Chilton stepped back, startled. “Gideon ripped out your guts then you were shot and then your face was eaten before you were burned alive.” Will smiled tightly while Alana muffled a cry. “How does it feel to be resurrected, Frederick?”

“I’m certainly going to enjoy plumbing the depths of your mind, Will,” Chilton shot back, already envisioning the publications.

“That’s enough,” Alana said harshly. “He needs rest.” She hustled Chilton out of the room, refusing to look at Will again.

Will settled back against the pillows, experimentally pushing against the leather restraints. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall, to fall back to the table in Cuba, smiling at Hannibal as he took a bite of his own thyme soaked flesh.

  
  



End file.
